I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another

To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.

A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

One listens to a piece of great music, say, and feels deeply moved by it, and wants to put this feeling into words, but it can't be put into words. That's what - the music has already supplied the meaning, and words will just be superfluous after that. But it's that kind of verbal meaning that can't be verbalized that I try to get at in poetry.

until only infinity remained of beauty

The evening light was like honey in the trees When you left me and walked to the end of the street Where the sunset abruptly ended. The wedding-cake drawbridge lowered itself To the fragile forget-me-not flower. You climbed aboard. Burnt horizons suddenly paved with golden stones, Dreams I had, including suicide, Puff out the hot-air balloon now. It is bursting, it is about to burst